Scared Moderate Female

Thursday, December 20, 2012

My Cammi cat, December 20, 2012. We are four days from our fifth anniversary together!

This is my Cammi cat, a photo fresh from the camera. She
wasn’t in the mood for flash photography.

I adopted this beautiful soul on December 24, 2007. I did not “need” another
cat, and I chose to buy some cat food at Petco instead of my usual place because
I did not want to run into any cat adoption fairs. I usually donated to a pair
of rescues, nothing huge, offering to buy some cat litter or cat food. I was
still missing my 16-3/4 year old cat Elliott, who’d passed away in March due to
complications of chronic renal failure.

I was surprised that there was a cat adoption fair at the Petco, on Christmas
Eve no less. They were operating abbreviated hours, from 9 a.m. to about 1
p.m., instead of the usual 9-to-5. I looked away, hurried to the rear of the store
for cat food, and while standing in line, looked over toward the people playing
with and holding cats.

Cammi looked at me, and it was over. I pulled myself out of the line and asked
about her. She was very tiny, so I figured she was maybe 8 weeks old. Nope, she
was nearly 5 months old, just petite. She’d only recently made weight to be
spayed, her belly was still shaved. She was the property of a rescue, and had
never been in a pound, though her story was no less harrowing.

Cammi’s momcat, a longhaired black teenager kitty the rescue named Gina, had
been trapped as a feral, and was being held in a Hav-a-Hart cage overnight
waiting for her spay the next morning. Gina had other ideas and gave birth to 6
kittens, but two did not survive. Cammi was the only tuxie and only
medium-haired one, and the runt to boot. Immediately the litter got sick, and
their foster caretakers worked overtime to save the little family.

Two of her littermates had already been adopted, and only Cammi (who was Hera)
and Flower remained, along with Gina. I stupidly asked if I could hold her. She
immediately relaxed and purred. A voice inside my head said “Take this one
home, she will make a difference in your life.” The voice just got louder as I
tried harder to resist. Finally, I handed her back, told the teenager who was
holding her to call Rosi, the owner of the rescue, to get me approved. I’d
already adopted from her rescue and had been approved to adopt a kitten earlier
in the year, but I did not get to him quickly enough. Meanwhile, I’d go home
and get my soft side carrier for the little girl, and make her mine. I asked
for assurances that I would not be breaking the heart of the 11-year old girl
who had raised the little litter, nursing the kittens to health, playing with them
and socializing the kittens and their mom Gina, who went on to be a substitute
mother cat to several litters of kittens and finally finding her forever home.
(Yes I did meet Gina, she’s a tiny girl herself, just like Cammi. I also met her foster family and thanked them for raising such a special loving soul.)

I have never regretted listening to that voice, nor have I
regretted taking on what was then a sixth cat. We bonded immediately, and she
quickly fit into my cat family, even winning over Ryan, who was five months
older than she.

It’s recommended you not adopt a pet as a gift—unless of course that gift is
for yourself and isn’t going anywhere but your home. Christmas time is
stressful, and can be lonely. I am firmly convinced that the adoption of
companion animals between Thanksgiving and Christmas/New Year’s is a
therapeutic thing, that the bond you form with your new pet is deep and
lasting.

Consider treating yourself to a new love in the coming weeks—adopt a cat. You
will transform yourself from mundane person to that kitten or cat’s guardian
angel. Throughout the years, you will be reminded of the Christmas gift that
gives back so much more than it has ever taken from you.

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Twenty-seven angels serve as a memorial to the children and adults who were gunned down at Sandy Hook School on December 14, 2012.

I do some of my best thinking on my knees, in the backyard,
with dirt in my hands.

Like all Americans, I wonder if events like Sandy Hook School’s tragedy can
ever be prevented. I’ve read some very eloquent articles asking for better
access to the mental health care system. I’ve read plenty of knee-jerk comments
about “banning all guns,” which is about as practical as rounding up all
illegal aliens and sending them hither and yon. I’ve read remarks blaming video
games and movies. But I’m pretty much against censorship, even
words/phrases/ideas I disagree with. (The only thing I wish would be made
criminal is filming/photographing animal abuse and calling it “art.”)

Then I got to thinking about movies. Personally, I’m not
into those shoot everyone kind of movie, called “action” films. I believe the
target audience for this kind of movie is middle-class white males, ages 15
through 40, adolescents through young adulthood. The audience enjoys guns, or martial arts, or hand-to-hand
combat, and like the adrenalin rush. In these movies, there is much carnage,
much death, much suffering. In most of these movies, we do not see the
suffering of those left behind when the bad guy dies.

Bear with me.

When I learned Osama bin Laden had been killed, I felt sad
for a few minutes. Not because his life had been lost, but that there actually
were people who loved him, children who knew him as their father. I felt the
same way when Saddam Hussein was hanged.Someone grieved for him.

Yes, both were exceptionally evil and when you live by the sword, you die by the
sword. And that is usually what happens in the movies. The good guys kill the
bad guys, sometimes the bad guy kills the good guy, but then the bad guy gets
his or there is some sort of divine redemption. Seldom in any film does one see
the aftermath of a death—a grieving wife, fatherless children. And that, in my
opinion, sanitizes the death and makes it less impactful.

And if there are no consequences to a violent death in a movie, well, it must
be that way in real life.

Sure, you may get a short scene of burka-clad women wailing after a terrorist
“hero” has been blown to smithereens in a war film. There may be a scene where
a family is notified of a death, and you see 15 seconds of disbelief and grief.
More frequently, you see an instant need for revenge. That’s certainly not the
way it goes in real life, is it?

I’m not suggesting that every action film have a sub-story showing the wife of
the dead bad guy telling her kids that daddy's gone, or worrying how she’s going to pay bills. I’m not suggesting that
the grief of parents burying their child after a violent death be a scene in
every film.

The movie “Beautiful Boy” did lead viewers through a family's grief and impact upon their lives.A couple’s only son, Sammy, feels
isolated away at college and kills 17 students and professors, finally taking
his own life. You don’t see much of the act of killing itself, it’s about the
aftermath. The parents were clueless that Sammy was miserable, though others did see signs that things were not right. Even when Sammy calls home the night before he goes on that rampage, and though he sounds somewhat depressed and not quite right, his parents fail to pick up on it. The next day, of course, they are shocked to hear of what Sammy had done, thinking it was out of the blue or spur of the moment.

Maybe a few screenwriters and motion picture studios might want to consider
producing a few action films that find a way to humanize those violent deaths. Sure,
kill the bad guy, blow him to smithereens, but find a way to show the hurt that
death caused someone. Because in real life, it does hurt someone, and it
certainly won’t hurt to remind that predominantly young male audience about
that fact.

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

You have failed us yet again. I’ve not been proud to cast my
vote for a Republican president since Ronald Reagan. I was okay with Ford, Bush
I, never a fan of Bush II, and was really not a fan of Republican party presidential
nominees such as Bob Dole (an admirable man, but not a president) or John
McCain (who was my choice back in 2000 and I did vote for him in the primary,
but his “maverick” stuff just made him wishy-washy to me).

We are no longer the party of Ronald Reagan and we will never be, and the
sooner we face that, the better. Politically, the majority of this country are
centrists, though you hear the most squawking from the far left and the far
right.

The reason I still identify Republican is the party’s fiscal
stance, and the desire for smaller government. And I think that is the most
attractive thing about our party. But the rest of the stuff our party “stands
for” is what has cost us dearly.

True, it’s single-issue voters and un- or under-educated voters
who really mess things up. If I thought Roe v. Wade was going to be in danger
of being overturned, I’d have just not voted. If I thought Romney was going to
“go after” gays, I would have not voted. I honestly believe he would have been too busy working on the
economic mess we are faced with.

But those single-issue voters pretty much always will go Democrat because of
the perception “Democrats are for personal freedoms.” Oh will you see how
erroneous that belief is as the next four years unfold. We have a president who
doesn’t hesitate to use executive orders to get what he wants. In effect, he’s
little more than an elected dictator.

What does my party, the party of my father, and his father,
my grandfather and his father, have to do to be successful? It’s quite simple.
We need to butt out of people’s personal lives and work to ensure equality for
all. And by “all” I don’t just mean minorities. I mean our GLBT friends, sisters
and brothers. We need to let Roe v. Wade be the law of the land, and allow
women the freedom to choose to terminate a pregnancy in the first trimester.
Yes, many of you believe this is murder and goes against what the Bible says.
And that’s your right to believe that, and I will not try to talk you out of
it. But inflicting your belief on me is just plain wrong. And that’s what’s
wrong with our party. Out of one side of our mouths we say we are for personal
freedoms, and then out of the other side we say, “Well, except gays are evil
and an abomination, and an abortion is killing a baby. But the death penalty
for murderers and the most horrible criminals is okay.”

We need to butt out. Personally, I would rather the government pay for an
abortion than 18+ years of welfare. I also believe that if the government does
pay for a woman’s abortion, that the first one is on us—the second one is cause
for a tubal ligation, period. Welfare is a way of life in some populations, and
that’s simply unacceptable, too. The only way that’s going to change is by
preventing reproduction. Some of those people don’t want to work, and think
they are due something simply for being American (or having an anchor baby who
unfortunately is “born” American).

We need to allow GLBT people the exact same rights as
heterosexual people have, and let them make the same mistakes! I don’t believe
allowing gays to marry (okay I’ll let you call it a civil union as long as the
rights are identical to marriage) costs us any money, so fiscally it makes
sense. If we are lucky, couples will spend their hard-earned dollars on nice
wedding ceremonies, and they will go on to raise children. They will get
divorced and have child custody fights just like heterosexuals do. They will be
allowed to make health care and end-of-life decisions for their spouses, just
like heterosexuals.

We need to be the party of budgets and fostering policies that encourage small
businesses to thrive. We need to have a strong, prepared military, and also
honor and care for our service men and women, their families, and veterans. We
need to NOT butt into other nation’s “civil wars,” and we need not be world
police anymore. We have allies, and we need to stand by them. We need to do
what we can to keep the United States what she used to be. We need secure
borders and limited immigration.

Really, it’s all quite simple. I don’t mind if a candidate
believes abortion is wrong, or doesn’t think gay marriage is the will of God.
But we have something called separation of church and state, and our state says
it’s legal. If he or she cannot be an advocate, just shut up and at least do
not obstruct efforts to allow for gay rights or work toward making abortions
unavailable. Let each state handle it, and stay out of it and do the job a
president is supposed to do!

Saturday, September 15, 2012

This week
is one I want to purge out of my mind and pretend it never happened (except for
what happened to me on Tuesday between 1 and 3 p.m., because it’s going to be
helpful).

I’m
frustrated because I don’t think I am getting better fast enough. I had a
doctor’s appointment on Monday (normal every 4 month liver functions for high
cholesterol medication) and when I stepped on the scale, I expected a decent
weight loss. I’ve not had much of an appetite since my kidney stone drama
started on June 17, and my clothing tell me I’ve lost weight, but the scale
said I’d lost only 10 pounds. There are some days I don’t eat at all because I
just am not hungry. So my body is in full famine mode, holding onto every ounce
it can.

My very
dear stepdad drove me to my appointment in Daly City, a 2-½ hour drive. He got
me there early, which is always good. Usually. Not that day.

When Jim picked me up at 8:15 a.m. he said there had already been a couple of
car wrecks along our route, including in the Bay Area. I didn’t think they’d
have any affect on what I was going to have done, but I was wrong! The car
accidents pretty much shut down the Peninsula, and the radiology/surgery center
noted that one of the doctors was late, as were all of the early appointments.
So they were behind an hour or so. My procedure time was supposed to be noon,
but I don’t think I got into a room until 1:30 p.m. By that time I am starving.

The
procedure went fine. Dr. Palma does as I ask—I want enough drugs to not
remember and to have little pain. To that end, they now have a full-blown
anesthesiologist or nurse anesthetist keeping patients on the table. All I
remember was feeling slightly dizzy with the Versed, then I watched as the
milky white Diprivan went into the tubing and into my vein. I remember thinking
“Why am I not out?” and then within seconds (so it seemed) I was awake and
being asked to scoot of the table and onto a gurney.

This
procedure involves sticking electrodes into my back and zapping nerves that run
through the facet joints. I asked Dr. Palma to really zap them and he did. This
time I had horrible pain in the recovery room, so horrible that it took 4 mg.
of Dilaudid and a Toridol injection to get me comfortable enough for the ride
home. In a month I’ll be in great shape for winter gardening/cleanup.

So I was not terribly clear in the head and it was the next day when I learned
about the going-ons of 9/11/12. Wednesday I scoured the Internet, using the
usual sources and of course some definite political ones, to learn about what
had happened. Couple that with a photo of a cat disappearing from my wall, and
I spent Wednesday crying.

The “cat disappearing from my wall” was a cat in an animal shelter in Baldwin
Park. I’d been sharing his photo and pleading—go get this kitty, share this
photo. One of the shelter volunteers said his time was almost up. He was a
ringer for my little Cammi cat.So I am
assuming the worst and am still so damned sad for the loss of that sweet soul,
Bond, who just wanted a home and love of his own. I still get weepy; I look at
Cammi and see him. Why can’t people just spay or neuter and be responsible for
the cats they are responsible for bringing into the world.

On
Wednesday the animal shelter posted a photo of brother and sister kittens who
are ringers for my Ryan—tuxrdo, mittens in front, little streaks of white on
their foreheads. Now I am worried for them. I promised my deceased kitty
Elliott that I’d take care of tuxedo cats like he was. I have only three…
that’s not saving very many.

Thursday the
pain was increasing rather than decreasing. The pharmacy finally had the right
medications, so it took a few hours to get the pain under control. I was still
looking for information about 9/11/12, asking myself “how could this happen?”
Isn’t 9/11 a high alert day for Americans anyway? Why should it be any
different for Americans in Islamic countries? If anything, every day should be
high alert there.

I learned that the assassinated ambassador was involved in the so-called Arab
Spring, that he loved his post and the people of Libya. I also learned he had
been sodomized before he died. Then I started tripping over stories about the
president and how he’d skipped security briefings—and yes, he’d skipped the
most recent one where 9/11/12 was discussed. I learned there was credible
information that something was up. Why weren’t embassy staffs at ALL Islamic
nations on high alert? Why weren’t there Marines crawling all over he
place—ARMED Marines who were ready, willing and able to take care of problems
should they arise!

Thursday
evening I was scrounging up something in the kitchen, and four-month-old tuxie
kitten Morgan was skittering at my feet. One of the dogs, the “best behaved”
one, Stoli, was in the house, too, across the room. At my feet (so at Morgan’s
feet, too) there was a rawhide chew toy neither of us noticed. Suddenly the dog
dashed across the room, teeth bared, going after the kitten and I for being
close to her chew thing. Had I not had the walker, she would have knocked me
down and no doubt harmed the kitten. I threw the walker at her to protect the
kitten and myself. The dogs are out of control, and I am pretty close to
admitting I am in over my head and rehoming both of mine. Four big dogs are too
much, and earlier in the week they broke into a neighbor’s yard, chewing up her
garden hoses and terrorized her all afternoon. All I’ll be left with are my
daughter’s two, and if she hasn’t collected them by Christmas, I’ll rehome or
PTS the black one (I cannot rehome her boyfriend’s dog).

So
Saturday finally arrived, and as I type this, six Americans have died as a
consequence of “unrest” in Islamic countries. Our secretary of state claims
those protests aren’t directed at Americans per se, but are a reaction to a
film produced on U.S. soil that is critical of their prophet. Please, Madame Secretary.
Stop the political correctness and see this for what it is: It was 9/11,
Islam’s new traditioinal spit on Americans day.

This
afternoon, one of the Facebook groups posted a photo of Black Muslims holding a
cross with a “crucified” cat on it. I could not believe what I was seeing,
shared it with an anti-Muslim extremist group, and reported the image to
Facebook, who refuses to remove the image. It is horrific, and I cried for a
good 15 minutes after seeing it. I imagine the poor cat is dead, its paws
attached to the horizontal bar of the cross, its abdomen tied to the vertical
bar. I have never felt such hate for humans or a group of humans as I did
looking at that photo.

This
country has had a dearth of leadership for most of my life. Presidents are
worried about being politically correct and afraid to offend any one group,
even if it is for the good of the majority of Americans. Most of my life I
worried we were going to be overrun by Mexicans. That’s no longer the case. We
are being overrun by Muslims, who take over a city, install Muslims into
city/county government, and then work to establish Sharia law. We have a
president who has published the words “I will stand with the Muslims should the political winds shift in an ugly direction.” We should all be very afraid. I believe he is doing just that.

If that
poor crucified cat is something acceptable to Islam (or anyone), they deserve to be wiped
off the earth. I cannot believe the cruelty, the disregard for life. I know
that there are so-called Christians just as evil, and I think they are no
better than Islamic extremists. But for now it is plain that our enemies are
Islamic nations who have zero respect for the U.S. because we have spineless
leaders (starting all the way back to Johnson) who get and keep us in wars
where there can be no winner, where the goal was impossible (in this decade, “establishing
democracy” in nations where Sharia law is what they want is as far from a
democracy as one can get). I do not want any Americans fighting a ground war in
this region. Bring our troops home, blow up a few mosques for good measure,
pull all foreign aid to Islamic-identifying nations, and protect our own
continent. Secure the southern border (I read an article that mentioned that
prayer rugs are among the litter left by border hoppers—since when did
overwhelmingly Catholic Mexicans start using prayer rugs?), deport students
from the Middle East who have overstayed their visas (What what the heck,
deport those from any country who have overstayed a student visa) and keep our
own nation secure.

I hope
our government learns something from the goings-on this week. I hope I soon
forget the mental and physical pain and find myself digging in the dirt,
getting my roses ready for winter, and being able to somehow learn that I
cannot save every animal.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

An example of a pain scale, from zero (no pain) to 10 (worst possible pain ever)

I have just re-calibrated the way I use the one-to-ten
pain scale. Prior to this afternoon, I reserved “10” for childbirth and waking
up from my back fusion surgery.

I live with what I judge is 6 to 8 pain every day, and
medicate only when the pain approaches 8. I stood for a couple of hours pitting
sour cherries yesterday, and woke up with back pain, which was expected. As the
day progressed, the pain began to radiate from my high lumbar area to around
the front—what one might call “flank pain.”

Nurse Cathy did a decent job of denying how bad the pain was or what it was
likely to mean. I knew I had a kidney stone, I could not remember its size but
knew it was in my left kidney. It was diagnosed by ultrasound in January of
this year.

However, when I found myself on my bathroom floor, looking for anywhere to get
comfortable, I had to accept the truth and diagnose myself with a kidney stone.
The little bugger had worked its way loose.

After today I have a new pain scale and ways to relate to it. Ten is a kidney stone on the move,
period. I have never endured that kind of pain, ever. And I’ve had lots of
different kinds of pain, but this takes the cake. I would rather have another
baby, even a 100-pound baby, or have another fusion surgery than ever do this
again. Childbirth is now relegated to a 9 on the pain scale. I’m going to drop
my daily pain to a range from 5 to 7, and reserve 8 for the day after an active
day, or a day I’ve walked on concrete, or a day after I’ve overdone yard work.

Unfortunately the 9-mm stone is likely too large to pass on its own, and I’m
headed for a lithotripsy or a percutaneous nephrolithotomy. It took 4 IV shots
of Dilaudid to ease the pain. I have orders to call my urologist’s office first
thing in the morning.

The only good things that happened in the ER were: (1) I
was taken care of by the daughter of an RN I used to work with at Mee Memorial
in the 1980s. KCHS peeps may remember Denise Dart from Greenfield. Her
daughter, Cassie, is her only child (Carlos Soto of Greenfield is her dad). I’ve
not seen Cassie since she was perhaps 3 years old, and my strongest memory of
her is as a preemie, just brought home from Stanford Medical Center 27 years
ago. Cassie is a most excellent RN, needing only two pokes to start an IV on me
(I have terrible veins). (2) I also got to see my step-cousin Molly, who was
working a rare day shift, and invited her to come pick some sour cherries from
my yard. (3) I semi-reluctantly went to the King City hospital, knowing there
was a real possibility that the medical staff knew my siblings and would be
eager to pre-judge me and believe I was seeking narcotics for my amusement (a
trick they did). I was examined by a doctor who has been in King City forever
(and I did used to work with him while I was on staff at Mee Memorial), and I
was worried that he would not listen to me regarding my pain (I was audibly
moaning, I could not help it!), and be reluctant to treat me with heavy-duty
narcotics because I do take daily pain medication, and ultimately discount what
I was saying about the pain. He didn’t, and Dr. Robert Hostetter I believe did
the right thing by me. Dr. Hostetter had a full head of thick, dark hair back
then. It’s thinner and gray now.

I am hoping that tomorrow’s as of yet unscheduled visit to Dr. Renfer takes
care of this problem. I really
don’t like the idea of having this pain ever again. I had a final dose of
Dilaudid at around 8 p.m. on my way out of the ER, and I had better take a
Percocet for the pain that is slowly returning.

Once the stone is passed/retrieved, it can be sent to pathology to see what
kind of stone it is, and what kind of dietary changes I need to make, if any.

The summer of 2012 is going to be one full of doctor visits… this unexpected
kidney crap, my yet-to-be-scheduled left hip replacement, and
yet-to-be-scheduled bilateral 2-level, rhizotomies for my back. I don’t dare
ask what else can go wrong, and even with all of that, I consider my health
good. Ad yes, I am a bit delusional I suppose.

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Today was a bit of a tough day; I’m not quite sure why I’ve
been so uncomfortable—I’m probably in deep denial about needing to go to my
back doctor and get in and have my annual neurotomies, and I really should go
see a rheumatologist about the persistent ache in my hands (and hoping the pain
in the hips is related to the pain in my hands). So I wasn’t terribly
productive in the yard today, though I did cultivate some nasty baby weeds and
pick up some big mistletoe branches that fell due to the high winds.
Consequently, tonight I’m not feeling so rewarded by my lack of productivity.

There are two things I like best about doing yard work. The
first has been the opportunity to learn how to take care of plants and
trees—thanks YouTube! To the best of my physical abilities I pruned my roses
this past fall—and pruned them properly—and I’m reaping the benefits by finally
having abundant, beautiful roses. Time will tell if the aggressive pruning I did on the grape
vines will result in edible fruit, how many blackberries I end up harvesting in
July, and if my nectarine and peach trees give lots of fruit.

What I like best about yard work (something I call “dirt
therapy” for lack of a better term) is it gives me lots of time to think.
Sometimes thinking can be dangerous, sometimes productive. I’ve had three main
life goals I’ve been thinking about, thoughts and wishes that are motivating
me.

The first of course is the hope I can someday buy myself a
mini-horse as therapy, both mental and physical. Being involuntarily weaned from being owned by horses is
probably contributing greatly to my overall dissatisfaction with life. I accept
that I shouldn’t be riding anymore, but I miss just having a horse to brush,
care for, and talk to. But no one
can help me with that one—I have to find the money, it’s on ME.

The second goal is pulling my house and yard together to the
point where I can entertain family and people I care about. I’d love to be able
to open my front door (which needs to be replaced or refinished…) and invite
people in to a nicely furnished house, with a nice, inviting backyard and deck.
The ghetto-ness of my house starts right at the driveway with weeds and a
truckload of garbage that just doesn’t seem to get hauled off. I guess there is
hoarder’s treasure somewhere in there.

Face it, I’m old enough that I should be hosting holiday
dinners and family get-togethers.
And someday, when this house* and yard is whipped into shape, I’d like
to have host a family reunion of sorts, a party bringing together the
descendants of James McCoey and Mary Ann Welsh, my paternal great-grandparents
on my father’s mother’s side.
James and Mary Ann (who were divorced, and it was some sort of family
scandal, because my grandmother wouldn’t talk about it at all) now have
great-great-great grandchildren, and there are actually quite a few of us still
in this area. I know I’d have a houseful, but I really want to reconnect with
those loved ones I’ve simply not seen in forever, and meet their children and
grandchildren (some of whom I’ve not met…). It’s not going to happen this
summer, because I’ve not yet figured out how to rid myself of the ghetto deck
and opossum condo that doubles as a broke-down hot tub.

The third “something” is figuring out a way to give to
people who need just a tiny bit of help to keep them going. I’m not talking
about throwing money at people—I have none (and if I did, look at the second
paragraph again to see where my money would go!). I’m talking about doing
things—a little something that might make someone’s life easier. Be it as small
as coming in and doing some light housework/yard work, I know what a difference
it would make. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a “club” (for lack of better term)
of KCHS graduates who would be willing to get together and just DO something
for someone? Put our pennies together, or our abilities, and just take on a small
project that would brighten someone’s day and maybe make their life easier? Like
a 4-H for grown-ups I guess!

* Whipping this house together means fresh paint outside and
inside, new carpet in two bedrooms, new flooring in two bathrooms and the
kitchen, remodel of the bathrooms [specifically new vanities], remodel of the
kitchen, a dining room set [including a sideboard for storing nice stuff] and a
television wall unit with shelving. In other words, it means pretty much a new
house and furnishings.

Sunday, April 29, 2012

Penny the Therapy Pony. She is therapy for me, and I want a therapy pony of my own!

Okay, so the title is a bit misleading. What I really need,
I suppose, is a good shrink. I need assistance in getting my brain re-wired to a more positive place.

Last weekend (from Friday, April 20 at 3 p.m. to Sunday,
April 22 at around 4:30 p.m.), I had the best weekend I’d had in over 15 years.
I admit I had concerns about
driving myself for four hours, as my usual pain limit is around an hour. And
yes, when I got out of the car in Tehachapi to refuel, those first ten steps or
so were excruciatingly painful. But any hint of pain utterly vanished as I
drove toward Bear Valley Springs and descended into the valley itself, looking
at open spaces, nice homes and horse properties complete with horses.

Normally what I would have done after a 4-hour car ride is
take something for pain. But I didn’t. I visited with my friend and within an
hour I was holding a horse in a wash rack, with horse hair flying all over, and
reveling in the smell of wet horse. We bathed three horses together, and while
Charisse and her husband Vic bathed a fourth, I sat in the sunshine with Penny
while she was drying from her bath. I should have been hurting like hell, but I
wasn’t.

It was only after I took a shower, washing off horse hair
and horse smell that I figured I probably should take something for pain,
because pain just has a way of keeping me awake. I fell asleep reading horse
magazines and woke up 7 hours later, a bit stiff (normal for me), but nowhere
near in as much pain as usual. I took a pain pill, and went about the day’s
activities, which included several hours of photography, walking, bending,
kneeling—whatever it took to get the shot. I know I should have been in pain—I do these things when I
do yard work. Mind you, I am as slow as a turtle doing yard work—I require
frequent rest periods and stretches, and at times I do have to break and take
something for pain. So by no means am I fast, nor do I lift much, and it takes
me three times as long to do something when compared to an able-bodied person.

That second night I noted I went 14 hours without taking any pain
medication. The next day we spent
time with the horses, and I even spent a good 15 minutes kneeling on the barn
breezeway floor, a brick surface, scratching dear Penny between her front legs
while she reciprocated and groomed the nape of my neck at the base of my
hairline. I did not want to return home, but knew my cats probably missed me
(and I them), so off I went in the
late afternoon, wishing I could bottle whatever “it” was that made the weekend
so wonderful.

By the time I got back to the Salinas Valley, I noticed how much my low back
was stinging. It was close to bedtime, so I took something for pain. I was sad and my mind dwelled on how I would never have a horse property, how I would never be able to have horses or live in the country on a house that is surrounded by a few acres. I woke up
in pain four hours later, my knees just ached to the core, and I repeated my pain meds. About five hours later I awoke
again, and again took something for pain.

I tried real hard to not fall back into my pain pattern my
first day home, and I did okay. But as the week has progressed, I’m back to my
old pattern. I don’t watch the clock, but my body just tells me that my back
and knees hurt, and first thing in the morning my wrists, hands and hips hurt
so badly that I’m just one package of pain.

Yesterday morning (Saturday) I woke up in horrible pain. The
first few steps I took across the hall to the bathroom were excruciating. But
I’d promised a friend I would visit her and bring her some blackberry cuttings
from my yard—I have so many blackberry plants, they are like weeds growing
everywhere! I forced my carcass to move around, eventually repeated my pain
medication (about 5 hours from the previous dose), dug up some plants, cut some
roses as a surprise to cheer my friend up, and off I went!

I have always had physical limitations—always! When I was a
very young child my knees would just stop working—probably dislocated kneecaps,
but I was too young to remember. If I took a wrong step or if my horse took me
into a tree or a fence, and I was hit just right, I’d dislocate my kneecap, and
I was at the mercy of whomever was with me to pull my leg out straight and the
kneecap would pop back into place.
I had to stop ballet in the third grade because my knees would not
tolerate dancing en pointe. I had limitations in PE throughout junior high and
high school. So I’m used to pulling myself out of very physical activities.

But when I saw my friend for the first time since 1974—someone
who was so golden, so vivacious, so unlimited and whose body has utterly
betrayed her despite doing everything right physical activity-wise, the breath
was knocked right out of me. Her spirit is still exactly as I remember, but now
she’s got the physical limitations—multiplied twofold—that I have. Back in high school,
nothing stopped her. Immediately
my “pain,” the pain I always have, went right into the shadows and I went into
“what can I do for you?” mode.

I happily planted the infant blackberry plants I’d brought
for her. Some went into pots, and I planted five in the ground, in a strategic
location so she can easily water and ultimately harvest the berries that will
come to her in July. I walked on uneven ground, sat on the ground, kneeled, got
up, walked around, and even carried in a case of dog food for her. When she
voiced concern about my pain, I had to say “I know it’s here but it’s just not
here.”

I went home expecting to “pay” for my activities. But I didn’t. I took
something for pain just before I went to sleep, and had my sleep interrupted
about 6 hours later, so repeated the medication. I putzed around the house for
a couple of hours in preparation for doing some of my own yard work.

At noon I went to the side yard to water my little bulbs who
are peeking their heads from the mulch. I watered them, and cultivated some
weeds (I’m trying to get rid of weeds before they get very big; I’m trying to
avoid having Round-Up sprayed all over the place). With 30 minutes of slow and
fairly gentle yard work, I hurt terribly. I took something for pain, and
continued cultivating the weeds in the dry, hard ground. An hour later I still hurt, so I repeated my
pain medication, and then went back outside to burn some yard waste—branches
and leaves I’ve trimmed from all over, dried weeds I pulled up several weeks
ago, and lots of mistletoe that is falling from the elm tree I’d like to cut
down.

I was happily interrupted by a visit from a friend I’ve not
seen in some time. She and her family lived in the house above ours, and we grew
up running around in the hills like wild animals—we’d leave home in the
morning, maybe go home for lunch (or more often, take food with us), play in
the creek or in the hills, and go home before dark. Our parents never worried
for our safety.

The only trauma from the visit was she saw my ghetto house and ghetto yard. My
house is nowhere near “house beautiful.” It’s in bad enough shape that I
generally don’t invite people in, I am so embarrassed. Two slobs live in this
house, and one of the slobs isn’t able-bodied enough to clean up after two! I’m
embarrassed she had to look at the ghetto deck and the ghetto hot tub where an opossum sleeps! But she said nothing—I think she knows and understands my
physical limitations, and of course now my financial ones. Someday I will have
the house and yard I want—no garbage strewn about, nice furniture, a comfortable
place that people want to return to, a place where I can host family
get-togethers during the holidays and not be embarrassed by piles of paper and
torn-up furniture.

Anyway, I am beginning to come to the conclusion that I have
less pain if I am doing something I love or doing for others. Now “all” I have
to figure out is where and how I can routinely apply this to my life every day.
Opportunities to “do for others” are sorely lacking in SoMoCo. I’m looking at
joining the Daughters of the American Revolution (yes I am eligible, I have TWO
relatives who served!) and I’m hoping there will be service opportunities
there.

In lieu of a mini-horse I think I will buy some chickens and
care for them—probably a temporary fix until I can afford to buy a mini-horse
and build a little turn-out pen for it in the backyard. Even though I’m not an
egg-eater (I cook with them) I know there’s nothing like fresh eggs, and I
think it will give me immense pleasure to raise chickens and collect their eggs
and give them to family and friends. Wonder if I can make a little money by
selling eggs… maybe that’s how I will be able to buy myself a mini-horse, which
is what I think will contribute greatly to keeping the pain I will always have
in check.

Cathy & Shorty

About Me

I am a middle-aged moderate Republican who is concerned about the direction this country is taking. I'm mostly socially liberal but I am very fiscally conservative and I think too many people in this country are waiting for handouts and not seeking solutions.